“But you and Oswald broke up. We can discuss your relationships later,” she said. “Now try to rest.”

Sleep knocked me out like an anvil on the head of an unsuspecting coyote. I woke up on my back, with my mouth open and dry. I sat up quickly, listening to see if anyone was near.

The room was dark, but I could see everything perfectly, which was extremely weird and yet fantastic. The red numbers of the clock radio glowed 4:47 a.m. and the house was quiet.

I was hungry in an unusual, painful way. I went through the dark to the kitchen, hoping the refrigerator wasn’t as bare as that of most bachelors. I opened the door and saw high-end foodstuffs: gourmet pasta and grain salads, imported cheeses, roast turkey, exotic condiments, juices and wines, perfect fruits and vegetables …

And steaks. There were six New York strips in the meat bin, brazen in their tight plastic wrapping, enticing me with bright ruby juices. So this is what Oswald meant when he said I craved red foods.

Since I’d missed dinner I didn’t think he’d mind if I grilled one up. I took a skillet from the pot rack and put it on the six-burner range. My cooking skills were limited, but even I should be able to cook a steak.

I was about to drop a New York strip in the hot skillet when I got the urge to smell it to see if it was fresh. It smelled delish. Then I thought that giving it a lick would be no worse than eating steak tartar, and then I thought that cooking the excellent beef would compromise it, so I began gnawing and sucking on the raw flesh.

The salty, rich juices were so delicious that I moved on to the next steak. It was only after I’d finished my invigorating snack that I realized that Oswald might not appreciate me raiding his fridge. As I was hiding the chewed-up gray steaks in the trash, I heard footsteps behind me. Without thinking, I grabbed a knife from the sink and turned around.

A silver-haired man in striped cotton pajamas and a white terry robe clicked on the overhead light and looked startled. “Good evening, or rather, good morning.” He looked like an older, slightly shorter version of Oswald, but with blue eyes and features sharpened by age.

I dropped the knife in the sink and said, “Hi.” I resisted the urge to glance down and see if I had any spots of blood on my clothes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t recall if we’ve met.”

“I’m Oswald’s grandfather, Allan George Grant, AG. You must be Milagro.”

“I am. Hi, Mr. Grant.”

He went to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of scotch. “I can’t sleep. Would you like a drink?”

“Sure, thanks.” I spotted a shelf of glasses and took two tumblers down.